


don't say anything

by fuzzbucket



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M, amelia is a good sister, holy angst batman, sad!andrew, she's not saying it back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 06:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18751150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzbucket/pseuds/fuzzbucket
Summary: “I’m not ready now. I don’t know if I ever will be. But… I care about you, Andrew. And I’m not saying never, necessarily, just… not now.”Moody, angsty post-ep for 15x23.





	don't say anything

**Author's Note:**

> Holy angst. I didn't mean for this to be as gloomy as it is. I do, however, think it's highly realistic that it might take Meredith a while from now to verbally reciprocate.
> 
> And I'm still working on ch. 2 of _us_ , this just kind of grabbed me earlier today. Hopefully I'll update that over the weekend.
> 
> Background tunes: "Say Something" by Kadiatou, "Suspirium" by Thom Yorke.

It’s been three days. Three days since he told her he loves her.

The first day was awkward. She dodged his texts and his calls and holed up in a lab most of the day. He volunteered to work at the clinic most of the day and Bailey was overjoyed, he thinks. He’s never really sure what the Chief thinks.

The second day, she approached him to scrub in with her. That, at least, he could do. He could compartmentalize enough to get through that, to prioritize his learning ahead of whatever fucked-up hash he’d made of his personal life.

This morning, she’d walked in on him asleep in an on-call room.

He was dead to the world – he’d been up half the night checking one of Dr. Shepherd’s patient’s vitals, waiting for him to wake up after surgery. He finally did, at four a.m., and when Shepherd arrived she shooed him away.

He was dead asleep on the bottom bunk, face to the wall. If he hadn’t been so exhausted he might not have passed out, might have continued to fret and turn events over and over in his head. Might have worried himself into puking, which is what he’d done the morning of the first day.

But instead, he’d fallen asleep, so exhausted – physically and _probably_ emotionally – that he didn’t hear the door open and shut and the lock click into place.

He only woke when he felt Meredith behind him, sneaking an arm around his waist. His response to her had been instantaneous – he grabbed her hand and pulled it up towards his chest, holding it close to him. He had been _so worried_ that he’d fucked this up for good and all he wanted was to never let go.

She whispered, her breath rustling his ear. “Andrew?”

He didn’t want her to say anything. He just wanted her to stay with him, to pretend like what he’d said hadn’t changed everything.

His sense kicked in as his body woke up. He turned to her, threading his arm over her waist. It was tight on the tiny bunk, but they made it work. He looked at her, bleary-eyed and unfocused. “Yeah?”

Where he was unfocused, she was laser-pointed, but she wasn’t saying anything. She just stared at him, eyes roaming over his face. If he’d been more awake, maybe he would have caught more subtext.

“Come over tonight?” she finally whispered, and he had felt relief and unease flow into his chest.

All he’d done is nodded and closed his eyes again, pulling her to him. They’d stayed like that for a few minutes until his pager went off and she had been up and out of the room before he could even grab it. 

He’d spent the rest of the day in a haze, turfing patients in the pit and checking Shepherd’s post-ops. Thankfully he hadn’t needed to scrub in on anything; he was far too distracted to even think about it.

She’d texted him around five, telling him to come by after eight.

And here he is – eight o’clock on the dot, he’s nothing if not punctual – standing on her doorstep, motorcycle helmet in hand.

He has no idea what’s about to happen. She might break up with him. She might yell at him. She might do neither of those things, but still break his heart.

He’s not even entertaining the potentially _good_ outcomes. He doesn’t have that kind of luck, and three days of almost radio-silence doesn’t bode well.

He knocks softly on the door, and is surprised when Amelia answers.

“Hey, DeLuca. She’s putting Bailey to bed, come on in.” She’s smiling, and he can’t help thinking he should read into it.

“Thanks, Dr. Shepherd.” He drops his stuff on the floor and kneels down to untie his shoelaces. “How are you?”

“Seriously, DeLuca, when you’re here, call me Amelia. None of that Dr. Shepherd shit.” 

Andrew stifles a guffaw. “But then you’d have to call me Andrew.”

Amelia scrunches up her nose. “Nah, I’m good. How about I call you DeLuca, you call me Amelia, and I’ll try not to remember the noises I hear coming from my sister’s room late at night?”

Andrew’s pretty sure he could not blush a deeper tone if he tried. “Sure, Amelia.” He gets his shoes off and stands up. Amelia’s just staring at him.

“Yes?” He feels incredibly on-display.

“Do you need food, or anything? We have leftovers.” Amelia motions for him to follow her into the kitchen.

“Food, no. I’ll just grab a beer – is that okay?”

Amelia rolls her eyes. “Yes, it’s fine.” Andrew wanders over to the fridge and pulls out a beer – he’s not sure who stocked the fridge, but he sends up a little prayer of thanks for whoever put that in there. His nerves are shot and he needs just a tiny bit of numbness tonight.

He pops the top off and takes a giant swig, leaning against the counter next to the fridge. Amelia’s still staring at him, elbows on the island in front of her.

“Seriously, what?”

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, clearly on the edge of forming a sentence. He’s used to this from working with her, but he’s not used to it in this context. He’s made her coffee almost every morning for the past few weeks, but it’s not like they have long chats about their personal lives.

“You’re not screwing this up, you know.” 

That shocks him. “What?”

“You’re not screwing this up. You’re a chaotic good. You’re upending my tightass sister’s ways and making her happy.”

He quirks up one eyebrow. “Ohhh.....kay?”

“Andrew.” She’s looking him dead in the eye and it’s unsettling. “Stop second-guessing everything. If she bolts, it’s because she’s a runner. If she clams up, it’s because that’s what she does. She wasn’t raised like you and me, in shouty, emotional families.”

“How do you know how I was raised?” Andrew’s a little offended.

“I might be a freakin’ space cadet, Andrew, but I can tell how someone was raised.” There she goes again, with the overfamiliarity. It would annoy him, but what she’s saying is his lifeline right now.

“So if I’m doing everything right, and she’s running, what the fuck am I supposed to do then?”

“For fuck’s sake, Andrew, you wait. If she’s not ready for something now, she’ll tell you when she is. Or, more likely, she’ll show you. That’s kind of her thing. My thing is spewing emotional vomit, hers is grand gestures.”

Andrew opens his mouth to ask her more, but they hear feet on the steps and he covers. “So did you want me to scrub in with you tomorrow?”

Amelia laughs as Meredith enters the room. “Clever boy, that trick won’t work. I’ll page you if I need you.” She saunters out of the room and he hears her run up the stairs. Now it’s just him and Meredith, alone in the kitchen. For the first time since this morning. 

“Are you hungry?” Her voice is surprisingly soft. She moves toward the fridge and goes to open it. Andrew shakes his head.

“No, I’m good, thanks.” The silence settles down on them again. She leans back against the island, her feet almost touching his. They’re just looking at each other, and Andrew takes another big swig of his beer.

“I’m…” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“Let’s just… stand here for a little while,” she says, stepping closer to him. She reaches for him and threads her fingers in his, staring down at their interlocked hands. 

“Meredith,” he says quietly. He doesn’t even have a plan for what he might say, but he needs to fill the silence, otherwise it will just be _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou_ and its pathetic cousin _dontleavemedontleavemedontleaveme_.

“Andrew,” she looks up at him, making eye contact for the first time. She steps up on her toes and presses her lips to his. He slides his beer back on the counter and pulls her to him, deepening the kiss. One of his hands weaves into her hair, the other around her back. Both of her hands come up to his face, one sliding back into his curls. She nips at his lower lip and he sees stars.

Before he knows it, they are pressed into the bed, hands scrabbling over skin and seeking purchase on the mattress. He’s lost track of who’s in control here – it’s a push and pull, one moment she’s in charge and the next, she’s looking up at him with wide green eyes, wordlessly begging for something.

It’s some kind of torture, to be with her, to feel her around him, to have her in his arms, and not be able to tell her he loves her. If it’s not what she wants to hear, he can’t say it again. He knows it might as well be written on his forehead in blood, that she has to sense it every time their lips meet. He can’t keep _anything_ to himself, even in the most benign of circumstances, and it’s killing him to do so now.

Later, they’re lying in her bed, him spooned around her. He can’t help noticing that despite his exhaustion, he’s not the slightest bit tired. He’s sure she’s fallen asleep – her breathing is even and quiet. He sits up and moves to detach himself from her – maybe he’ll take a late-night run.

He’s surprised by a squeeze of his hand. “Andrew, stay.”

He can’t say no to her. He can’t say what he wants to say, but he also can’t say no to her. 

He lays back down, pressing a chaste kiss to her shoulder blade. 

“Just – stay with me awhile.” Her voice sounds small, and vulnerable, and alarm bells are ringing in his head. Maybe this is goodbye. 

He can’t voice it, though. Now is not the time for his insecurity to rear its head. “I’m right here, Mer.” 

He hears her exhale deeply. “Andrew, I wasn’t ready. I’m still not. But I heard what you said.”

It’s so hard to have this conversation without looking at her, but that’s how she wants it. “Okay.”

She stays quiet for another few moments, then speaks up again. “I’m not ready now. I don’t know if I ever will be. But… I care about you, Andrew. And I’m not saying never, necessarily, just… not now.”

Andrew feels the tears pricking at the back of his eyes. So this is why.

She turns in his arms and he sees that her eyes are filled with unshed tears, and his heart clenches. He reminds himself that this isn’t even necessarily about him, but the life she’s lived and the past she’s still actively a part of.

“If you can’t… if that’s not enough… I’ll understand, Andrew, I really will.” He’s shaking his head as she says it, almost like a reflex. He doesn’t know how he’ll make it if she can’t _ever_ tell him; at the same time, he doesn’t want to try it without her.

“No, Meredith,” his voice is shaky and he’s trying to keep it together, “It’s enough, for now.” He pulls her close to him and wraps his arms around her, feels her shakily crying against him. 

He has no idea if the tears are for her, for him, for Derek, for one of the many others she’s lost. But he knows that the least he can do – and the _only_ thing he can do for her right now – is be there for her.

Eventually, he feels her still, and she cranes her head up to look at him. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is husky from tears.

He shakes his head and pushes her hair back from her face. “Want a bath?” She wanly smiles at him, and he extracts himself from the bed and goes to the bathroom to run the water.

He turns the spigot on full blast and stares at himself in the mirror, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the greyish pallor. He splashes cold water on his face, throws something that smells vaguely lavenderish in the tub, and leans against the sink while the tub fills.

It is enough, right? It’s enough that she might, someday, _maybe_ be able to say it back?

Forget a future, forget thinking about what’s going to happen to them five, ten years from now. Forget overblown fantasies of what their life would be like together.

She didn’t break up with him. She didn’t yell at him.

But she still broke his heart.

She comes into the bathroom and slips into the tub; she gestures for him to join her; he holds her in his arms in the water as they quietly contemplate one another.

He thinks he could wait for this woman. He could wait for a very, very long time. He could sacrifice everything he’s ever wanted for himself, abandon his dreams of a family and a future.

But he’s going to have to learn how to live with his heart cracked wide open.


End file.
